7

Opening the shutters the next morning, Anthony was confronted by a murky sky and roofs damp from a fine drizzle. He suddenly remembered the Spanish word for this kind of weather: calabobos, literally “idiot-soaker,” and felt it applied directly to him. His hangover from the excesses of the previous night did not prevent him from appreciating the drama of his situation. His physical discomfort combined with his anxiety to make him feel sick. He could have done with a solid breakfast and a strong coffee, but knew this was impossible because he did not have a penny, and without a passport could not go to a bank. There was nothing else to do but turn to the British Embassy for help, however embarrassed he might be at appearing before a disdainful official like the most gullible of tourists.

Trying to shelter from the rain under eaves, Anthony walked down Calle Prado. He wondered how best he could present himself at the embassy when he had no documents proving his identity. If anyone there knew about his work on Spanish Golden Age painting, he would need only give his name; if not, he would have to turn to his friends in the Foreign Office. This made him rather uneasy, as his best friend at the Foreign Office was the former companion at Cambridge who was currently married to Catherine—the woman with whom he had been having an affair in recent years, who, if she had received his letter, was quite likely to have reacted furiously, perhaps even confessing to her betrayal. In either case, it did not seem a good idea to use his friend’s name. Moreover, the reason for Anthony Whitelands’ presence in Madrid was supposed to demand a maximum of discretion. He wondered whether in fact the nature of his business there did not impose strict professional silence, meaning that he should not even get in touch with his country’s diplomatic service. But how could he resolve his desperate situation without the embassy’s aid? The only alternative would be to tell the Duke of La Igualada everything, and beg for his protection. Which of course meant that in the eyes of the duke and his family he would lose all respectability and credibility. His face went from white to pink as he imagined Paquita’s expression when she heard of his exploits. Everything was conspiring against him.

He had reached the statue of Neptune when the rain came on hard. Not knowing where to shelter, he rushed over to the steps of the Prado, then bounded up to the ticket office. Because it was so early and there were few visitors, the attendant recognized him and, showing a kindness which in the midst of his despair he found quite touching, allowed him in without asking to see his credentials, which had also been stolen. Now he was in the dry, and still uncertain about his best course of action, he let his feet take him to the Velázquez room once again. He wanted to look at The Fable of Arachne, but came to an abrupt halt as he passed in front of the portrait of Menippus, as though the eyes of this character, half philosopher, half tramp, were forcing him to stay. Anthony had always been puzzled by Velázquez’s choice of this subject. In 1640 he painted two portraits, Menippus and Aesop. These were intended to compete for the King’s favor with two other very similar portraits by Peter Paul Rubens, who was in Madrid at that time. Rubens painted Democritus and Heraclitus, two universally famous Greek philosophers. By contrast, Velázquez chose two minor figures, one of them almost unknown. Aesop was a writer of fables, Menippus a cynic philosopher of whom nothing certain has come down to our day, apart from what Lucian of Samosata and Diogenes Laertius tell us. According to them, Menippus was born a slave. He joined the sect of the cynics, made a lot of money by dubious means, and lost all he had at Thebes. Legend has it that he ascended Olympus and descended into Hades and found the same things in both places: corruption, deceit and baseness. Velázquez paints him as a gaunt middle-aged man still full of energy, dressed in rags and without a home or possessions; his only resources are his intelligence and his serenity in the face of adversity. Aesop, his pictorial partner, is depicted holding a thick book in his right hand, in which his famous if humble fables are doubtless written. Menippus also has a book, but it lies open on the ground with a torn page, as though everything he has written is of little importance. What can Velázquez have meant by choosing this evanescent character, who was always setting off without any idea of a goal, apart from his constant, repeated disillusion? In those years Velázquez was the exact opposite: a young painter in search of recognition as an artist and, above all, social advancement. Perhaps he painted Menippus as a reminder to himself, so that he would not forget that at the end of the climb to the pinnacle of fame, all that awaits us is not glory but disenchantment.

Inspired by this thought, Anthony rushed out of the room and the museum, determined to resolve his problems in the most practical way possible. The rain had stopped, and the sun was peeping through the clouds. Without hesitation, he made for the Duke of La Igualada’s mansion. At the Cibeles statue he had to move out of the way of a sizeable group of workmen in caps and aprons who, to judge by the rolled-up posters and banners some of them were carrying, were going to a march or meeting. Thanks to his lofty stature, Anthony could see a gaggle of blue-shirted young men watching the scene defiantly from the Gran Vía. The workmen scowled back at them. Recalling what had happened the previous night in the tavern, Anthony resolved to avoid any possible confrontations and to return to London as quickly as possible once he had settled his business in Madrid. At the same time, the sensation of violence and danger gave him a shiver of excitement that was highly unusual for a man like him, accustomed as he was to considering himself methodical, prudent and faint-hearted. When she had said goodbye, Paquita had told him that at moments of great uncertainty, when chance becomes the arbiter of life and death, people behave with a special intensity. He now understood what she had meant, and wondered whether that beautiful, enigmatic young woman had said it to encourage him to let himself be carried away by his impulses, without stopping to think of the immediate or future consequences.

Reaching the mansion, he knocked on the door with renewed determination. As on the previous occasion, the unlikely-looking butler opened it, let him into the hall, and went to tell the duke he was there. His lordship appeared at once, and greeted the Englishman in the affectionate, natural tone of someone receiving a friend he has seen quite recently.

“Today I will not waste your time,” he promised, then said to the butler: “Julián, please inform Master Guillermo. We will be in my study.” He turned to Anthony. “I want my son to be present, and I am only sorry that my other son is unable to take part too. I have a traditional view of my inheritance. I have never considered that my estates or possessions truly belonged to me, but that they were part of a chain of ownership in which each generation was merely a link. As such, those who benefit from this inheritance need to do their best to preserve it, build it up as much as possible and, when the moment arrives, pass it on to the next generation. Considered in this light, wealth becomes a duty, and the satisfactions it offers are balanced by a feeling of responsibility which robs them of a great deal of their attraction. I am not saying I envy the poor: the happy man who according to legend went shirtless would never have survived our Madrid winter. I am telling you all this for you to understand the anguish I feel at being about to dispose of an important part of my property.”

While the duke was talking, they had reached the study where he had outlined his fears during their previous meeting. This time a dozen paintings were lined up against one of the walls.

“My son will not be long,” said the nobleman.

Anthony understood that the women in the household would play no part in the decisions taken. This disturbed him slightly, because in his experience women were more down to earth when it came to putting a price on art, possibly because a secret lack of family pride allowed them to accept the compromise needed between the aesthetic value of a work, its sentimental value and its worth on the market.

Guillermo del Valle’s sudden entrance interrupted Anthony’s thoughts. Greeting each other coldly, both of them turned toward the head of the family.

“Let’s get on with it,” said the duke with the false cheerfulness of someone about to be operated on. “As you see, Whitelands my friend, in order to help your assessment, we have brought together the works most likely to fit the bill, as I understand it. They are all medium-sized and on decorative themes, and most of them are signed and authenticated. Please be so good as to glance at them and give us your first impressions.”

Wiping his glasses on his handkerchief, Anthony Whitelands went over to the pictures. The duke and his heir remained quietly at a discreet distance, but their barely concealed anticipation prevented him from carrying out an objective examination of the paintings. He did not wish in any way to dash the hopes of this noble family in distress, to whom he already felt linked for a variety of reasons, but a first glance was enough for him to realize he would not be able to offer them anything more than kind words. Although his mind was already made up, he paused for a while in front of each painting so as to dismiss the remote possibility that it might be a forgery, judge the quality of the brushwork and examine how well preserved was the paint. All of this only served to confirm his first opinion. In the end, he decided to confront things head-on, because he too felt increasingly uneasy, not only at the impossibility of fulfilling the expectations held of him, but because the idea that he had undertaken a useless journey which was proving to be full of difficulties and probably real dangers made him increasingly angry with himself: he should never have listened to a charlatan of the likes of Pedro Teacher.

When he turned toward his host, his face must have betrayed something of these emotions, because before he could open his mouth, the duke exclaimed:

“Do they seem so worthless to you?”

“Oh. No. Not at all. The paintings make a fine collection. And each canvas has its own merits, I’m sure of that. My reservations . . . my reservations are of a different order. I am no specialist in Spanish painting of the nineteenth century, but what little I do know leads me to believe that perhaps this was not the most outstanding period in your country’s art. Of course that’s unfair, because nothing can compare with Velázquez or Goya . . . but that’s how things are: outside of Spain, important figures such as Madrazo, Darío de Regoyos, Eugenio Lucas and many more are eclipsed by the great figures of the past. Possibly Fortuny, or Sorolla and . . . not much else . . .”

“Yes, yes, I understand what you are saying, Whitelands my friend,” said the duke, gently interrupting him, “and I completely agree, but even so—do you think these works could find a buyer in England? And if that is the case, how much might such a sale raise? I’m not asking you for a precise sum, of course, just a rough idea.”

Anthony cleared his throat before muttering:

“Sincerely, Your Grace, I have no idea, and I don’t think anyone would be able to judge that beforehand. I don’t know who could be interested in this kind of painting outside Spain. In my opinion, the best thing to do would be to hand the paintings over to an auction house such as Christie’s or Sotheby’s. But that, given the situation . . .”

The Duke of La Igualada waved his hand in the air in a benevolent gesture.

“Don’t force yourself, my friend. I thank you for your discretion, but I think I have understood what you are trying to say. This is not how we are going to manage to raise capital.” When the Englishman said nothing, the duke gave a sad smile and added: “No matter. God will provide. Believe me, I am only sorry to have made you waste your valuable time for nothing—although of course your work will be properly rewarded. And I warn you—I won’t hear of any refusal. Friendship should never affect what has been agreed, especially where money is involved. You English have made this rule into a positive dogma, and that is what has placed you at the summit of the civilized world. But we’ll have a chance to philosophize some other time. Let’s put aside this disagreeable business and go and see if our aperitifs are ready. Naturally, we’re counting on you to share our modest meal with us again.”

Anthony had not been expecting this invitation, and when he heard it he felt as though the heavens had opened for him, not just because it would give him the opportunity to see the enchanting Paquita again, but also because he had eaten nothing all day and was on the point of passing out. Before he could accept, however, he caught a look of annoyance on Guillermo del Valle’s face. It was obvious that the young heir felt offended by a foreigner’s negative judgment not merely of his legitimate inheritance but of a symbol of the dignity of the family name.

“Papa,” he heard him murmur, “may I remind you that today we have a guest.”

Casting his son a glance that was a mixture of disapproval and affection, the duke said:

“I know that, Guillermo, I know that.”

Much to his regret, Anthony felt compelled to butt in:

“I would not in any way wish to . . . and in fact, I have a prior engagement . . .”

“Don’t lie, Mr. Whitelands,” replied the duke, “and if you must lie, don’t do it so badly. And don’t pay my son any attention. I am still the one who decides which guests should sit at my table. It is true that today we have a guest, but he is someone we trust, a good friend of the family. Besides, I am sure he will be delighted to meet you, and it will be interesting for you to meet him. So that’s that.”

He pulled on the bell cord. When the butler appeared, he told him:

“Julián, this gentleman will be staying to lunch. And see to it that these paintings are put back as carefully as possible. On second thought, I had better supervise that. Guillermo, look after our friend, will you?”

When the duke left the study there was a tense silence. To save the situation, Anthony decided to tackle the subject head-on.

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you,” he said.

Guillermo shot him a hostile glance.

“You’re right in supposing you’ve disappointed me,” he said, “but not in the way you think. I have never had any intention of leaving the country. On the contrary: this is the moment for us to stay at our posts and take up our weapons. We cannot leave Spain in the hands of the rabble. I would have liked to have seen my mother and sisters safe and sound, though. My father too perhaps: he’s an old man and, despite himself, a hindrance. Now my family has become a double reason for concern. Firstly on their own account, and secondly because when the time comes they will try to stop me. They think I’m a child, even though I’m already eighteen. Now, if I stay, everyone will think it is not out of choice, but due to a lack of means. That idea mortifies me. Not being Spanish, you wouldn’t understand.”

After he had got this off his chest the young heir seemed relieved, as if he had rid himself of a great weight.